


To Bring a Dog to Heal

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dog trainer Keith, Kosmo is a cutie, M/M, Service Dogs, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: No stranger to training service dogs, Keith knows better than to get attached to the puppies he raises; they’re all destined for other homes, other owners, other lives. But all the good sense in the world can’t curb his fondness for Kosmo, a sharp, blue-eyed shepherd-mix who understands him so well that Keith sometimes wonders if the dog can sense his thoughts. His professionalism fares no better when he meets Kosmo’s designated recipient— a gentle, handsome man suffering from sleepless nights and panic attacks in crowded store aisles— and Keith is left grappling with growing attachments he knows will end up biting him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank god for @drowsycakes for prompting this while brainstorming sheith hallmark movie plots

He decides to name the pup Kosmo, with a _K_.

It’s not Keith’s first time training a service dog, but something about Kosmo is different from the start— a cleverness about him, an innate understanding, an instant connection that only grows stronger by the day.

In those first months, he focuses on socializing the growing puppy. They take long walks through the wooded country surrounding Keith’s farmhouse, Kosmo getting used to the feel of a harness and a service vest. Once leash-trained, he takes the dog on rides into the city to familiarize him with the bustle of dense crowds, packed subway rides, the blare of car horns, the temptation of food stands.

It’s all a bit much for Keith, but Kosmo acclimates quickly to every environment and new situation thrown at him. And just as quickly, Keith’s resolve to remain professionally unattached to the dog crumbles. His bond with Kosmo solidifies all on its own, their companionship too natural to deny. There’s a sharp intelligence behind the dog’s blue-eyed stare, a calm empathy and understanding that lends itself perfectly to service. If he didn’t think Lance would dangle it over his head until the end of time, Keith would even say there are times it seems as though Kosmo can read his mind, jumping to obey commands before he even signals them.

Keith soon begins incorporating PTSD-related alerts into their training, teaching Kosmo to respond to tremors and anxious gestures, to recognize the signs of a nightmare. He’s never trained a dog that picked it up quicker, and Keith knows Kosmo will do wonders for whoever is lucky enough to get paired with him.

He wakes to the cold, wet snuffle of Kosmo’s nose against his ear one brisk, autumn morning and then shuffles downstairs to start the coffee pot brewing. He stands shirtless in the kitchen as he refreshes his emails, surprised to see Allura’s name in his inbox.

It’s news he should’ve expected. News that shouldn’t leave him disappointed. Allura’s reviewed all the applications and made her match, pairing Kosmo with someone named—

_Takashi Shirogane._

Contact information follows. With a drawn sigh, Keith emails the guy to set up a video chat. The sooner he can start tailoring Kosmo’s training to Takashi Shirogane’s needs, the better. They set a time for later in the evening, and the impending reality of meeting Kosmo’s eventual owner sits in the back of Keith’s mind all day, an obstruction to his usual functioning.

As the hour draws near, he fiddles with the laptop while Kosmo sits dutifully beside him. The video is stilted at first, laggy as it connects. The fault is likely on Keith’s end, given his farmhouse’s less-than-stellar internet service provider options.

The picture eventually solidifies and sharpens into something cohesive, and Keith can _feel_ the shift in his own expression, amazement drawing up his brows and opening his eyes wide.

Takashi Shirogane is… good. Good-looking. _Very._

“Uh, Mr. Shirogane?” Keith asks, willing himself not to get lost in the full fringe of the man’s lashes, the strong cut of his jaw, the perfect symmetry that’s only broken by a slightly uneven scar that bridges his nose.

“That’s me,” he says, and even those two words are charming. “But you can call me Shiro.”

“Okay, cool. This is Kosmo, with a _K_.” There’s a long beat of silence before Keith realizes he’s supposed to introduce himself, too. “Oh, and I’m Keith.”

“Kosmo with a _K_ and Keith with a _K_.” Shiro’s smile is heart-stopping but his soft little laugh is even better; beside Keith, Kosmo starts wagging his tail. “Did you pick his name?”

“Yeah, that was me,” Keith admits, turning his head in the hopes of hiding the faint blush he feels creeping up. “Can’t really change it at this point…”

“I wouldn’t want you to. I think it’s cute. Kosmo _._ Like the cosmos? Or like Seinfeld?” he asks, smile half hidden behind his fingers as he rests his chin on the heel of his palm.

“Little bit of both,” Keith admits, running a hand down his face. 

It’s not the conversation he’d expected to have, but it’s good. The knot in his stomach unravels as easily as a spool of silk and as they get down to business Keith feels reassured. Relaxed, even, if not for the way that his stomach flips whenever he stares too long into Shiro’s eyes.

“So, we train the dogs to alert to signs of anxiety and oncoming panic attacks— hand-wringing, leg-jiggling, hunched posture. But I can train Kosmo to respond to any unique signals you have. Specific sounds or movements, anything like that.”

“Oh. I usually… sometimes I hold my head like this,” Shiro says, his cheeks a touch red as he demonstrates. “And I tend to clench my hands, I think. And I have a lot of nightmares,” he adds, glancing away from his laptop camera while he rubs the back of his neck with a sleek prosthetic hand.

“Kosmo can wake you up as soon as he sees signs of distress. We’ve been practicing that already,” he says, stroking along the dog’s plush fur.

Shiro groans softly, relieved, his head tilting to one side. “Looking forward to that. They get pretty rough if they go on too long.”

Keith’s fingers thread deeper into Kosmo’s undercoat, conviction filling him with renewed purpose and drive. He wants to help Shiro, wants to offer him relief, wants to give him the best possible ally he can in Kosmo.

With a yawn, Shiro eventually mutters that he ought to get to bed. “Goodnight, Kosmo. Night, Keith. We’ll do this again soon, right?” he asks as he leans back in his chair and stretches, revealing a broad chest and shoulders for _days_.

“Y-yeah,” Keith manages to reply. “Monthly check-ins. Have a good sleep, Shiro.”

They wave goodbye at each other and then the connection goes dark. When Keith turns his head to Kosmo, the wagging dog licks him squarely in the face.

“Yeah. I like him, too.” 

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the monthly video chats to turn weekly.

Conversation comes easy with Shiro. Naturally. _Enjoyably_. For Keith— long accustomed to avoiding human interaction and keeping four-legged company instead— it’s surprisingly rewarding. Their chats always start with Kosmo’s training progress, but by the end they might be discussing star showers, their preferred style of mac and cheese, or their favorite childhood cartoons.

Keith likes it. Likes when Shiro starts lying in bed to chat with him, back cushioned against a mountain of decorative pillows. He likes just about everything to do with Shiro, actually, and it’s only when his mom gently teases him about the man over dinner one evening that Keith realizes how much of his life has become centered on Kosmo and his future owner. 

Curled on his side atop a plaid bedspread later that night, hands buried in Kosmo’s fur, Keith preemptively mourns the inevitable day he’ll lose _both_ of them.

Excitement builds toward the first day of team-training despite the wistful sadness he can’t quite shake. After a year of viewing Shiro through his laptop screen, he’ll finally meet the man in the flesh for two weeks of in-person training, the both of them staying at Allura’s service dog facility, Legendary Defenders. And above all else, Keith is eager for Shiro to get the help he’s waited for so patiently, so hopefully, through restless nights and crippling panic attacks. Kosmo is going to change Shiro’s life, and that alone makes everything worthwhile.

Still, their meeting day leaves Keith an emotional powderkeg. Kosmo responds to his own symptoms of anxiety— fingertips rubbing together, his foot tapping rapidly as he waits in their assigned room— and does exactly as he’s been taught, pawing at Keith and nosing at his hand until he cannot be ignored.

“Good boy,” Keith whispers as he kneels down and pets Kosmo, ruffling his coat. “You’re gonna be a good boy for Shiro too, aren’t you?”

“Of course he is,” a voice from the door says. “He was trained by the best.”

Shiro in person is even more than Keith dreamed of, and as they shake hands he tries desperately not to stare. His eye roves anyway, taking in the details that didn’t quite convey through the screen. Shiro’s size, for one thing— his hand swallows up Keith’s, the pair of them probably large enough to encircle his waist. The warmly grey shade of his eyes. All that muscle fitted into the constraints of a tight, clingy sweater. An _unreal_ shoulder-to-waist ratio.

And as he lets loose a smile brighter than Sirius, Keith can’t help but grin back. All his time, all his efforts, all his early mornings and long days have been for this— for Shiro and his welfare. For his happiness.

“It’s an honor to work with you,” Shiro says as he kneels to greet Kosmo, delighted when the dog offers up his paw to shake.

“Thought you’d like that,” Keith mumbles, smiling to himself as Shiro scritches the dog behind his ears.

Keith steps back and gives Shiro a few hours to start bonding with Kosmo, one-on-one. It’s the first step of letting go, he supposes. A bittersweet necessity. Threads of longing hang tight to his heart, but there’s no shortage of pleasure in watching the two of them roll across the floor as they play together.

Shiro is fast and loose with the treats Keith gave him, quickly winning Kosmo’s approval. He’s springy and athletic too, nearly able to keep up with Kosmo’s blistering dashes and hairpin turns. They spend a lot of time on the ground together, the dog draped happily over Shiro’s middle while he tosses treats into the air and lets Kosmo snap them up. 

And Keith watches from a distance, arms crossed, his smile soft as his confidence grows stronger by the minute. He’ll have to stop by Allura’s office later and give her the credit she’s due— another perfect match made.

The rest of the day is spent teaching Shiro the basics of handling and training Kosmo from here on out. Keith lays the basework for the next thirteen days, in which they’ll work on strengthening Shiro and Kosmo’s bond and refining the dog’s alerts by practicing them on Shiro himself.

It’s the first time Keith’s ever wished team-training lasted longer. Forever, maybe. He spends the days fulfilled in his work, satisfied to see the results of more than a year’s labor coming together perfectly. They pass the evenings watching movies together on Shiro’s laptop, Kosmo nestled in between them on the narrow bed.

It’s strange sleeping without Kosmo next to him now. Lacking. Lonely. He’s just on the other side of the far wall, curled with Shiro in his room, but soon that distance will span miles and miles.

“Kosmo interrupted his first real nightmare last night,” Shiro proudly tells him on the morning of the last day, a hand ruffling at fuzzy ears. Still half-bent to pet the dog, he looks up to Keith. “And I have you to thank for that, Keith. This is— I’m just— I had a lot of hopes pinned on this. On Kosmo. And you delivered.”

“I aim to please,” Keith says, smiling small. “And you deserve it, Shiro. There’s no one I’d rather see Kosmo go home with than you.”

But it’ll hurt, watching them leave.

As Shiro straightens up to his full height, he reaches into a back pocket and fishes something out.

“I’m sure Kosmo would love it if you came to visit,” Shiro says, extending a hand. There’s a slip of folded paper tucked between two metal fingers, offered up with a tentative smile and a soft blush. As Keith plucks the paper and unfolds it, he adds, “I know _I_ would.”

A name, a number, an address, with _I owe you dinner_ scribbled below. Keith smoothes his thumb across the tight scrawl and smiles, gaze lifting from the hand-written note to Shiro.

“It’s a date.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year later, they’re moving in together. Kosmo approves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for sheith new year 2019's kosmo day! thank you [coppertellurium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppertellurium) for beta-ing :)

“That’s the last of it.”

Keith plants a foot on the moving truck’s rear bumper and stretches high to grab the handle. The door rolls down with a metallic groan, grinding as the _Atlas Moving_ logo slowly comes into view. He latches and locks it tight, ensuring none of his boyfriend’s belongings wind up strewn down the interstate.

A morning of moving heavy furniture and boxes down from Shiro’s sixth floor apartment has his skin damp with perspiration despite the January chill. Keith mops his forehead with the sleeve of his red hoodie— a Christmas gift from his dad’s buddies, emblazoned with the name of their firehouse— and waits for his boyfriend.

The exertion’s left Shiro’s cheeks a little red, the flush dipping down below the collar of his jacket. Underneath, his heather grey shirt is dark with sweat. He rounds the truck with a tired grin, the rental keys dangling in one hand and Kosmo’s leash in the other.

“Told you we didn’t need to hire any movers,” Keith says, vindicated as he thumps the back of the truck. They’ll be sore tomorrow, but it’s worth the satisfaction of having saved themselves a few hundred dollars.

Shiro hums as he steps in close, square jaw angled as he tilts his head. “Pretty lucky that I’ve got such a strong boyfriend to help me out, huh?” he says, taking one of Keith’s hands and pressing a kiss to knuckles left scraped and bruised in all the heavy lifting.

Keith can’t help but give a little flex, preening under Shiro’s praise. “Pretty damn lucky,” he agrees, giving the older man’s side a squeeze.

Shiro’s no slouch when it comes to muscle either, though he’s softened up a bit just in the time Keith’s known him. Exercise still helps manage his anxiety— Keith’s grown used to joining Shiro for pre-dawn push-ups and runs and yoga— but with Kosmo and Keith around, he’s more likely to relax. More liable to sleep through the night and into the morning, letting his usual vigilance slip for an hour or two.

And it shows. Keith sees it in the slighter fullness of his boyfriend’s cheeks, the rested look in his eyes. He can chart Shiro’s progress in peaceful slumber, fewer tension-born migraines, his willingness to return to places he’d once carefully skirted around. It’s only been a year for Kosmo and Shiro, but they’ve already made leaps and bounds that have Keith aglow with pride in the both of them.

They part with one kiss that turns into four or five, each softer and more lingering than the last. Shiro presses his keys into Keith’s hand and whistles low to Kosmo as they head around to the front of the Atlas rental.

Keith climbs into Shiro’s well-loved Jeep and gets the engine running, waiting with his wrists draped over the steering wheel while his boyfriend and Kosmo get situated in the oversized moving truck. It’s not the first time he’s driven the Jeep, but it’s the first time he’ll be behind the wheel without Shiro beside him and Kosmo sprawled in the backseat.

Keith rolls the Jeep up alongside the truck’s cab and rolls down a window, pausing to adjust the rearview mirror. “You sure you’re okay driving that behemoth?”

“A little late to second guess myself now,” Shiro says as he flicks at the fuel gauge and frowns. Beside him, Kosmo lets out a howling whine, tail swishing as he spies Keith through the open window.

“Hey, buddy,” Keith fondly returns, giving the enormous dog a wave. He asks Shiro, “Remember the way to my place? Got the address pulled up?”

“Yeah. But… it probably wouldn’t hurt if you took the lead,” Shiro adds as he arranges his phone on the dash and then starts the rental truck. It rumbles and puffs out exhaust as the engine turns over, loud enough to drown out the faint music coming from the Jeep’s speakers.

Keith nods and gives them both a thumbs-up before shifting gears and rolling ahead. Shiro’s no stranger to his woods-backed farmhouse, but it lies well off the beaten path, down a dozen narrow, winding roads barely marked with street signs. Better for Shiro to follow him than miss a turn and struggle with getting the moving truck reoriented.

A light turns yellow above him as Keith crosses an intersection. Reflexively, he presses a kiss to his fingers and then palms the roof of the Jeep— a superstition his father taught him as a kid, giving thanks for the good luck of making it through in time. In the rearview mirror, Keith catches sight of Shiro doing the same as he slips through the yellow light too, his prosthetic hand stretched up to the ceiling of the truck’s cab.

Keith’s smile spreads wider. Shiro picked that up from him.

Puttering down the interstate at ten miles under the speed limit is its own kind of agony for Keith, but he maintains a slow cruise for the sake of the lumbering truck behind him. His gaze flits to the rearview mirror more often than usual, keeping an eye on his boys as the city skyline shrinks away and the sun climbs higher.

It’s just after noon when they start taking the twisting, pine-strewn roads that lead to the quiet patch of land Keith inherited from his uncles when they decided to more or less live off the grid. By the time Keith pulls Shiro’s Jeep onto the gravel beside his battered red pickup truck, his stomach is rumbling and he’s thinking wistfully of the leftover pizza sitting in his fridge.

He jogs inside and grabs the cardboard box while Shiro inchingly backs the Atlas truck toward the farmhouse’s side door. He flips the grease-stained top up just as Shiro and Kosmo clamber down from the truck. “Cold pizza,” he offers, jiggling the box temptingly. “It’s mushroom and pineapple.”

Shiro’s nose wrinkles but he takes a slice anyway, delicately picking off pineapple pieces and tossing them back into the box for Keith to pile high on his own slice. “Thanks.”

Keith can’t help but feel a little guilty eating in front of Kosmo, who sits with his tongue lolling out as he expectantly looks back and forth between the two of them.

“No, people-food isn’t good for you,” Shiro tells the dog in between bites, tone all steadfast authority.

 _As if._ Keith rolls his eyes as he chews. It’s an awful lot of talk coming from the marshmallow-hearted man who regularly sneaks dinner scraps to Kosmo, done in by those puppy-dog eyes _every time._

“Don’t be like that,” Keith adds as Kosmo softly begins to whine— a byproduct of Shiro spoiling him rotten. “I have two pounds of meat fresh from the butcher inside for you, buddy. You’re gonna be eating better than we are.”

They start unloading as soon as the last slice of leftover pizza is gone. Keith is still staunchly confident in his decision to forego professional movers, but after hour three of lugging boxes up the steps into the house, he begins to wonder if they ought to have taken up offers from his mom’s family to help them move in.

He’s drenched despite the brisk winter chill and the faint twinge in his lower back reminds Keith that he’s not as young as he used to be. He’ll probably feel it tomorrow three-fold but at least Shiro will be his partner in misery. They can curl up together with ibuprofen and heating pads once the aches settle in, weary and sore in each other’s arms.

He’s getting the last of the boxes out of the truck when Kosmo trots up to him with a plastic bottle clutched in his jaws. Keith pats the dog’s head as he carefully draws the red Gatorade from his slobbery maw, giving the bottle a wipe against the front of his shirt to clean off the drool.

“Thought we could use a break,” Shiro says as he walks over, swinging a nearly-empty refillable water bottle by the rubber loop strung around its neck.

Keith hops down and follows Shiro to the steps of the front porch, where they both plant down with quiet groans. They take turns tossing an old tennis ball for Kosmo to bound after, quick as a lightning crack, and muse on all the things they still need to get finished this weekend. There’s no huge rush, honestly, but Keith would like to have Shiro comfortably settled in before his first day on the job at the university one town over.

It’s a lot to deal with at once: new career, new house, new relationship milestone together. _Exciting,_ sure, but even thrilling changes don’t come stress-free. Keith absently twists the top of his empty Gatorade as he halfway listens to Shiro slipping into baby-talk as he scratches the giant dog trying to stand in his lap.

Keith wants this to be home to Shiro, just as much as it is to him. He wants his boyfriend to fall in love with these woods, this house, the life they could have here together. It’s a lot to pin his hopes on, Keith knows, but Shiro has a way of making him hopeful.

Kosmo has a field day blitzing around the wide yard and digging up the toys that Laika— Keith’s most recent dog to train and set up with an owner in need— left buried across the property like hidden treasure. The look on Shiro’s face as Kosmo dashes up and drops a grubby, dirt-caked squid in his lap is definitely worth the effort of scrubbing the dog’s snout and paws clean afterward.

They get all of Shiro’s things inside just as the winter sun begins to slip behind the surrounding forest. As shadows loom and stretch across the property, the interior of the house only grows brighter. Its rooms fill with the sound of ripping tape and cardboard, faint music from one of the three stations Keith can pick up out here on his dad’s old radio, and the click of Kosmo’s nails across the floor as he follows Shiro from room to room.

It’s a tight fit in some places, cramming Shiro’s life into his own. Having gotten by with three plates and a handful of mismatched silverware for most of his adult life, Keith has to wonder at the necessity of the full twenty-piece dinnerware set that comes along with Shiro. But it’s the two of them now, he reminds himself as the somewhat bare cupboards of his kitchen fill with orderly stacks of drinking glasses, elegant teacups, and unchipped ceramic dishes. Living together's going to be an adjustment, a meshing of lifestyles— his mom made sure to drive that point home.

Shiro also owns an awful lot of sauce pans and casserole dishes for a man who subsists almost exclusively on takeout, protein shakes, and microwave-based recipes. Not that Keith has a problem with Shiro’s occasional culinary adventures— it’s good to regularly test the fire alarms, after all, and more than once his boyfriend has even stumbled onto edible results (never to be repeated).

Keith is gentle as he draws a number of bubble-wrapped figures from the next box. Each one is meticulously assembled, painted, and fixed with custom details. They’re Shiro’s, all of them: the Orion capsule, the Calypso shuttle, high-altitude jets like the ones Shiro used to fly. With tender care, Keith carries them to the spare room he devotes to painting and unwraps Shiro’s meticulous packaging. He arranges the models along a shelf that holds only a few of his finished canvases, positioning them the same way he remembers them sitting on the bookshelf in Shiro’s bedroom.

“Keith? Keith?” Shiro’s head peeks around the doorframe before the rest of his body follows, a box filled with nothing but dog toys in his arms and Kosmo stamping at his heels. “Hey, there you are.”

“Uh, yeah. Just putting some of your stuff up.” He suddenly worries that maybe he overstepped. Maybe this is too personal a call for Keith to make; maybe they’re too tucked away in here, as if he doesn’t know or appreciate how much these mean to his boyfriend.

“You found my models,” Shiro observes, the corner of his mouth pulling back in half a smile. He stares past Keith, eyeing the neat line of painted aerospace figures on the shelf, lips just parting.

“We can move them, if you’d rather,” Keith offers, shrugging. “Anywhere you want. I just… I thought it’d be nice. Our stuff together. We could move a table in here. I’d paint while you work on your models. That kind of thing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that.” Shiro pauses to set down the box in his hands. He pays no mind as Kosmo immediately buries his face in the extensive toy collection, rifling through until he finds a particularly squeaky hippo toy.

“Are you sure you’re okay with them here, though?” Shiro asks, tapping his metal fingers along the full shelf. The lines of his shoulders are sloped with steady exhaustion from the flurry of packing and moving. “I know they take up a lot of space… and right in front of your art, too.”

“Well, yeah. I think they’re a perfect fit.” Keith adjusts the orange and grey Calypso shuttle until it’s lined up in front of a large starscape he painted last summer, during the Perseids.

Shiro likes the pairing so much he snaps a picture and makes it his lockscreen, apologizing to Kosmo as it replaces a shot of the dog wearing fuzzy antlers and chewing on a stuffed penguin. And Keith makes a mental note to make a few more shelves to put up. Both of their collections are bound to grow, and he wants plenty of space to see their work thrive side-by-side.

They spend another hour unpacking boxes. After multiple trips upstairs to their bedroom, Keith finally gives into the ultimate temptation.

With a sigh, he flops backward onto the bare mattress and spreads his arms wide, snow angel-like, and indulges in the king-sized extravagance of it. He’d spent the better part of his adult life sleeping on a worn out double with saggy springs, complete with cheap sheets and the same comforter he’d had since high school. Now, that Keith’s had a taste of luxury, though...

“Enjoying yourself?” Shiro asks as he leans against the doorframe, two bottles of beer in hand. He pops the tops loose with an aluminum-plated thumb and smiles as he takes his first sip.

The answer is so obvious that Keith feels no need to say anything at all. He’s made no secret of his love affair with Shiro’s bed. From his first glimpse of he’d neatly tucked quilts and colorful pillows piled as high as the headboard over their video chats, he’d been intrigued. More so as he got to see Shiro sprawled the bed on his belly as they talked, squishy pillows tucked under his body or looped in his arms, the mattress large enough to fit Shiro and Kosmo with room to spare. Keith’s longing prayers had been answered that first night Shiro invited him to stay in and watch a movie, the two of them stretched out on his massive bed with Kosmo sprawled in between them for maximum petting potential.

When Shiro first floated the idea of applying for a new job and leaving the city behind a few months back, Keith had all but stumbled over himself offering to open up his home to his boyfriend. It only made sense— it’s an easy twenty-minute commute to the college town east of here, the utilities are cheap, and Kosmo would have room to run and play that apartment-living just couldn’t compare to. The opportunity to jettison his shitty double-bed and instead squeeze Shiro’s king-sized mattress into the master bedroom certainly didn’t hurt, either.

Keith pats the empty space beside him, beckoning Shiro to come lie down. After a full day of hauling boxes and furniture, they both deserve the rest. Shiro laughs, dark eyes squinting in the prettiest way as he grins, and he moves to set their beers down on the nearby nightstand first.

Kosmo bolts past and leaps up onto the bed before Shiro can, his furry bulk monopolizing the stretch of mattress meant for his owner.

“Alright, scoot over,” Shiro chides as he shoos Kosmo toward a void space near the headboard. He groans as he heaves himself onto the bare mattress and collapses next to Keith, his sigh sending wisps of Keith’s shaggy hair fluttering. “Oh, damn. I could fall asleep like this.”

“Same,” Keith murmurs. It feels good to lie down. Better with Shiro at his side and Kosmo nearby, gold eyes watching over the both of them.

Keith rolls onto his side and tucks his arm under his head as he studies Shiro’s scarred profile. “How are you feeling?”

Somewhere between them, Shiro finds his hand and lays his over it, square palm pressing into calloused knuckles. His hum turns into a murmured, “Lucky. Exhausted. Excited. Nervous. _Hungry._ ”

Keith gives a soft snort at the last one. His own empty stomach twists in kind. “My mom and Kolivan said they’d bring dinner. Ought to be here soon, too. We can eat, take a bath, and then pass out.”

“Sounds like a plan. Hopefully I can pull it off in that order,” Shiro laughs, subdued and sleepy.

Keith turns his hand over underneath Shiro’s so they’re resting palm to palm. His hand is smaller and thinner than Shiro’s, more delicately boned. While they relax in each other’s presence, he idly laces and unlaces their fingers.

They spent a year getting to know one another through video chats and phone calls; another year bridging the distance between them with weekend-long dates and dinners at restaurants halfway between their respective homes. But from here on out, Keith gets Shiro full-time, no matter the weather or the traffic or how tired they both are from long days at work. And Kosmo, too.

Eventually, Keith hears the crunch of a truck coming up the gravel drive and by the time he and Shiro plod back down the stairs with Kosmo padding after them, Krolia and Kolivan are already busying themselves in the kitchen.

“Whoa. Thought you were just bringing some dinner,” Keith says, eyebrows lifting high. The counters are stacked high with various pantry staples— boxed macaroni, baking mixes, canned soup and vegetables— and his mother is currently filling the freezer with vacuum-sealed venison and duck.

“Think of it as a housewarming gift, of sorts,” Kolivan says, tone measured and flat. He stares into the refrigerator— empty, aside from a few remaining beers and a jar of spicy pickles— and frowns. “I did not realize the situation here was so... dire.”

“I haven’t had time to hit the store recently.” At his uncle’s stony-faced look, Keith sighs. “It’s not that bad.”

“I knew I should’ve had Antok quadruple everything,” Kolivan mutters as he starts packing the fridge with at least a week’s worth of pre-cooked meals, puzzling over how to make it all fit.

With the faintest laugh, his mother lays her hands on Keith’s shoulders and turns him round, steering him back toward Shiro and the small table where a covered casserole dish sits. It smells like the roasted chicken he grew up eating, heavy on lemon and flecked with chopped herbs. “We wanted you two to have more than takeout and peanut-butter sandwiches while you get settled.”

Shiro sets out drinks and dinner plates for each of them, and Keith has to pause to admire his boyfriend’s taste. The matte black edged in silver looks _good._ Elegant. Leagues better than Keith’s old plastic dishes, riddled with slice marks and slightly warped from the dishwasher. Judging by the little look of pleasant surprise his mom and Kolivan exchange when they think no one is looking, they’re impressed with the change, too.

Keith carves the honey-gold chicken and spoons out roasted winter vegetables while Krolia and Kolivan ask Shiro about the move and his new job. It’s a good meal shared with family; it’s comforting, being tucked away in the warmth and privacy of a home kept in the Marmora family for three generations now. And somewhere in between Shiro bashfully ducking his head as Krolia congratulates him and Kolivan dryly recounting the house’s history, Keith realizes it’s his and Shiro’s first dinner here together, the both of them officially living under this roof.

He grins and pretends he doesn’t see Shiro subtly slip Kosmo a chunk of cooled chicken under the table.

The night deepens and soon it’s only the three of them. It’s not new to follow Shiro up the stairs to his bedroom, with Kosmo patiently waiting for them at the top. It isn’t new to squeeze into the narrow bathtub with his boyfriend and draw the curtains shut, cleaving close to try and fit both of their bodies under the spray. Falling together into a hastily made bed, surrounded by pillows and the fluff of Kosmo’s fur as the dog curls protectively at Shiro’s back, isn't exactly new, either.

What _is_ new is knowing there’s no limit on it. He’ll see Shiro in the morning, all day, and then fall asleep beside him tomorrow night, too. And the next night. For weeks, for months. For _years,_ he hopes, even as it feels like a tremendous thing to want for.

“I love you,” he whispers, thumb stroking the rise of Shiro’s cheek as the man yawns wide. His kiss lands on the corner of Shiro’s mouth, right where the curve of his drowsy smile starts.

“Love you, too,” Shiro murmurs as their noses bump, the full fringe of his lashes hanging over his dreamy, sleepy stare. Under the covers, his hand skims up the length of Keith’s thigh and over his hips; it slips beneath softspun cotton and comes to rest on the dip in Keith’s waist, holding him near.

A long snout suddenly appears over Shiro’s shoulder; Kosmo blinks down at Keith, wet nose twitching.

“We didn’t forget you,” Keith says with fondness, reaching up to rub the dog’s head. “Glad to have you back, buddy. And now we’ve got Shiro here, too.”

Shiro mumbles something unintelligible and contented, already given over to sleep. He doesn’t even wake when Kosmo gives him a goodnight lick across the ear— just squirms deeper into his pillow and reflexively pulls Keith in even closer, their legs already tangling under the layers of blankets and quilts.

A perfect night, by Keith’s imagining. He falls asleep in Shiro’s hold, one hand curled in Kosmo’s fur, and dreams of more nights like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on twitter [@neyasochi](https://twitter.com/neyasochi) and tumblr [@neyasochi](https://neyasochi.tumblr.com) and pretty much everywhere else as neyasochi

**Author's Note:**

> Keith’s day job is training sniffing dogs for customs, search and rescue, etc. He also trains service dogs on the side for Allura, always for free to help offset the cost for people who need a dog; she pays for all his meals when he comes up for team-training. :)


End file.
